‘—thing, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned—’
Through the arms and legs of the throng, I notice my father, standing by the place he hides his letters. Face drained of colour, eyes fixed on mine. In his hand, I see Lina’s letter. He signals with his eyes. Then firmly closes his hand over the letter. No one is looking at him.
‘—something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Bodies close in, cutting my father from view, and again all I see are shoes. Then my captor swings me upright, and all of us move towards the door. We frogmarch through the yellow waiting room, through reception and down the steps to the entrance. My flip-flops have been lost in the tussle and as we step out into the breeze the gravel pricks my feet.
‘Didn’t they get the van through yet?’ asks a voice. Everyone halts.
What’s going on? I’d expected helicopters and tear gas and abseiling bloody marines. But there aren’t even any police cars. For a moment I’m stumped. Then my gaze shifts down the driveway to the gates. There, I can just see the top of a police van. A crowd of heads struggles behind the gates, and behind them there’s something that looks like a satellite dish. A large white floodlight illuminates the scene.
‘Jesus Christ,’ says one officer. ‘When did the cavalry arrive?’
At that moment a door opens and Rhona comes out, escorted by two policewomen.
‘Mrs McNeill,’ someone says, ‘if you’re up to it, would you please move your car?’
Suddenly I realise why the police moved in on foot. Joyce’s Mini is parked slap bang in front of the gates.
‘And let that mob in?’ spits Rhona.
I stare at the jumble of strangers. Moving and struggling. Every gap is filled by a face. Arms whip like tarantula legs.
‘Kathy! Katherine! Kathy! Kathy!’
‘We’ll move it for you then.’
‘I don’t have the keys,’ she replies coldly.
‘Fuck it. Let’s just walk it,’ says someone.
‘Put something on her head.’
A policewoman drapes me with her jacket. Slowly, we start to move.
I can’t see the crowd as it grows nearer, but I can hear them. Old and young, male and female, their voices form a chattering, baying cloud. Some have local accents and some do not. As my breathing speeds up, the air under the jacket grows stuffy. I gulp in breath. People behind me start shouting.
‘Move back! Get back!’
‘John – watch that camera.’
An arm wraps round my neck. Lights start flashing. Once. Twice. Then continuously, transforming my legs into a glittering disco. Something soft hits my chest, and as I skitter sideways it falls onto my feet. A small blue teddy bear, with a gift tag full of writing.
‘Kathy! Kathy! Can you give us a comment?’
‘Look at her feet! Sid, get a shot of her feet. Quick!’
An extra-big flash. I look down and see my own grimy legs lit in white.
Something hits me again.
‘For fuck’s sake, John. Watch her head.’
‘Clear a path!’
‘Lunatic!’
‘—be locked up!’
‘—love you!’
‘—wasted good money on your treatment. Can you explain why you saw fit—’
‘Mrs McNeill, how bad are your injuries? Can you comment on your ordeal?’
Somewhere nearby, I feel a struggle going on.
‘Kathy, do you have anything to say to the Lullaby Girl Foundation?’
‘Vultures!’
Was that Rhona’s voice? A scuffle breaks out, and for several seconds the voices cut off. Shoes scrabble. A hand hits the tarmac, palm down, and a woman cries out in pain. Strong hands yank me backwards. Then the lights swing away from my feet and I hear them clicking in a different place.
‘BBC News, Kathy. Can you tell us why you turned on the people who—’
‘Get her through the other side! Get her through!’
‘Move back!’
‘—say to all the people you’ve let down?’
The bodies around me press closer. I can feel them breathing now, pressed close into me. I stumble.
‘Fucking pigs!’ shouts a man. A hand claws my arm. Fingers pull my clothes. Then, quite suddenly, the jacket over my head becomes taut. Everything jolts to a stop. I feel hands fighting above me.
‘Get back!’ yells a voice. Then the jacket whirls away and I am unveiled to a ceiling of eyes. Collectively, the crowd inhale. Several feet away, a woman in a pale suit holds a microphone, and I realise with shock that I recognise her. She’s the one Joyce was so mad at that day after the thunder-storm. Her microphone has a strip of metal embossed with the words
Daily Post
. Over her right shoulder, a huge camera lens is pointed at me.
She lunges.
‘Kathy, how do you justify your blasé attitude towards the Lullaby Girl Foundation? Don’t you think your supporters deserve some payback for all the—’
‘So
that’s
what you are,’ I exclaim.
‘Yes. I spearheaded the campaign which evolved into the Lullaby Girl Foundation. Until your lawyer shut us down, our readers raised over eighteen thousand pounds for your treatment. Aren’t you grateful for—’
‘You broke into our house. You said you were from the church.’
A hush falls. The woman in the suit looks shocked but recovers quickly.
‘We’ve invested so much in you. Don’t you think you owe us for that? Photographs? An interview? Some indication that you
appreciate
—’
‘I never asked for your help,’ I say. ‘Why did you help?’
‘Because we
care
.’
I look at the
Daily Post
woman. At the camera.
‘No. I don’t think you do,’ I say quietly.
The newspaper woman’s mouth opens and anger flashes through her eyes. Around us, I notice the mood shifting. The shouting has turned into whispering, but on the whole people seem taken aback. As though they’ve discovered a talking chihuahua and are figuring out what to do about it.
The policeman beside me has recovered the jacket now and tries to put it back on my head. But I duck away and say, ‘Wait.’
‘So you
are
ungrateful,’ snaps the woman with the microphone.
‘No. I just need some privacy, like anyone else.’
‘She’s mad,’ says someone. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s saying.’
‘I am not mad.’
‘You’re a public figure! People are interested in you!’
‘Why? What do you want?’
‘We want to know what happened!’
‘Why?’
‘We just do!’
I glance around the crowd. Some faces are kind, some are not, but the thing that unifies them all is the hunger in their eyes. Every single person is dying to hear me speak again. For a moment, I wonder if I do, indeed, belong to them. And regardless of the reasons behind their interest, I find this concept oddly comforting.
‘Well, maybe I’ll tell you one day,’ I say. ‘But not here. Not like this. We’ll do it my way.’
‘Let’s move, people!’ yells a police officer, and to my amazement people clear a path. But there’s a commotion at one side. Behind a row of police, one man is struggling like crazy. I see an elbow. A fist. A flash of blond hair.
‘Katherine!’ shouts a voice.
I freeze. A face slots through a gap and is shoved back through. People stumble. Arms and legs squashed tight, with the police line leaning on them. I’m running back to them now, but my captors intercept me. I slither to the tarmac. Look up. Struggle forwards. Look for the blond man.
‘Tim!’ I yell.
People gasp. A hand stretches through and holds my face. Then a gap opens up, and I see him. Slightly battered but grinning like a maniac. Tears spring into my eyes. His hair’s longer than when I last saw him. And someone appears to have smacked him in the nose recently. But it’s him. Alive and well and right here. Our eyes clamp together. Then more bodies barge between us and strong arms scoop me backwards. My heart is beating hard. But I’m happy. So happy. Stumbling, I am shepherded away.
At the van, Rhona catches up to me. Her face is flushed as they bundle me through the doors.
‘The police won’t let me go with you,’ she says. ‘But don’t be scared. I won’t press charges.’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ she says.
‘I know.’
The doors close, leaving Rhona on the pavement. She waves as the van rumbles to life, and I’d have waved back if it wasn’t for my handcuffs. Camera bulbs flash through the darkened windows, and amidst this light show her silhouette fades from view. This ought to have been my worst nightmare. But instead I feel quite fine. My heartbeat slackens as the van whisks me smoothly away.
Everything
is
going to be okay. It is. Because finally I know what to do …
How many months have I carried this fear in my belly? Protecting it from those who sought to extract it. Kidding myself while it fed on me and grew fat. I’ve had enough of that parasite, and the time has come to purge it. Into the open air, into the ears of the police. I’ll tell them about Hans, about Kolbeinn and Magnus. About what they did to me, and what I did in return. God knows, Hans’s house was full of evidence. It might be enough to send Kolbeinn down, if they haven’t weeded him out already. Maybe Magnus too. But not Lina. The news that she got away hit my heart like sunshine, and I refuse to drag her back into this. Maybe that’ll mean prison for me. Maybe Dundee. But I’m ready for those things. Only by letting go will I free myself. Only then can the clock start to tick again.
Through the windows of the van, dark shapes whirr past. There are no flashing lights now, and no shouting voices. Just the rushing of the northern wind. Cold and crisp, laced with the scent of the sea. It’s the last thing the Lullaby Girl will ever smell, before returning to Mary’s side. My pale twin, born of despair. Tonight I hand the baton back, and reclaim my rightful place. My name is Katherine. I came from the waves. And at long last, I am awake.
First published 2015
by Black & White Publishing Ltd
29 Ocean Drive, Edinburgh EH6 6JL
www.blackandwhitepublishing.com
This electronic edition published in 2015
ISBN: 978 1 84502 972 2 in EPub format
ISBN: 978 1 84502 950 0 in paperback format
Copyright © Aly Sidgwick 2015
The right of Aly Sidgwick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Ltd, Bungay